Mortal Fear (17 page)

The Mercedes takes the curve with the grace of a racing
hound and glides toward a lighted gatehouse in the distance. A lot of men go through life the way your father did.

Silent desperation, right?

Thoreau knew a thing or two.

Actually thats James Taylor. Thoreau said
quiet
desperation.

Lenz snorts. My mistake.

The Mercedes stops at the gate long enough for a uniformed marine to come to the window, check Lenzs pass, and wave us through. Before weve driven fifty yards the rattle of gunfire rolls out of the darkness. I feel as though were moving through a ghostly skirmish in these historic Virginia woods, but it must be marines on night maneuvers. After we pass a second gate, a complex of lighted buildings much like a college campus appears. Lenz picks up his cellular and hits a speed-dial code, mutters into the phone, then hangs up and makes a sharp turn off the main drive.

Hostage Rescue touches down in Dallas in twenty minutes, he says. Theyll be at the apartment in thirty-five, maximum. Strobekkers still on-line.

I shudder with the sudden exhilaration of impending action. This is unbelievable.

Lenz nods. And were going to have a front-row seat.

What do you mean?

Wait. He stops the Mercedes near the rear of a parked semitruck and looks at me. I hear a heavy metallic
ching,
then watch in amazement as the rear panel of the semitrailer rises into the roof and dim red light bleeds out around the silhouette of a man. I have only seen him once in my life, but every fiber of my instinct tells me that black shadow belongs to Daniel Baxter, chief of the Investigative Support Unit.

We drove all this way to get to a
truck
?

Lenz chuckles softly. Dont say that word anywhere near the people youre about to meet. They call this vehicle Doctor Cop. For MDCPMobile Digital Command Post. Youre about to see interactive media like you never imagined, Cole. As close as the FBI ever gets to Hollywood.

The silhouette at the back of the truck does belong to Daniel Baxter. After shaking hands with me, he leads us into the strangest environment I have ever entered. The interior of Dr. Copthe Mobile Digital Command Postfeels like a mobile home from some worlds fair exhibition fifty years in the future. It is long and narrow and stuffed to the ceiling with rack-mounted shock-cushioned computers, CRTs, satellite receivers, surveillance gear, and pale technicians with bona fide nerd packs in the pockets of their short-sleeve poly-cotton shirts.

A constant thrumming vibrates the floor of the command post. Soft radio chatter emanates from several sets of speakers, none of it in sync. I assume the nerds are somehow following all of this. Baxter leads us along a cramped walk space to a curved bank of video screens. Most are blank, but two show black-and-white views of what appears to be a detached apartment building much like the ones I lived in during college.

Is that it? Lenz asks.

Baxter nods. Two apartments per unit. Strobekker is six seventy-two. Six seventy-three is empty, thank God.

Is that a live feed? I ask.

He nods.

The resolutions unbelievable.

Digital video. Were getting it encrypted over a secure channel. Baxter points at a screen. Notice the windows of the apartment? Covered with aluminum foil on the inside.

Bad sign, says Lenz. How long until HRT gets there?

Touchdown in five minutes at Love Field. Another
ten, give or take, to get on site. The complex is about halfway between Love and DallasFort Worth International, just one in a sea of complexes. Anonymous as you can get.

Anything I can do before Hostage Rescue goes in?

Baxter shakes his head. Hes using the only phone, so we cant call and ask him to come out. I dont think I would anyway. He might do the hostage.

Lenz nods. Mr. Cole and I need to speak privately. Any chance?

I cant believe Lenz is this persistent. Baxter motions for us to follow him through a narrow door at the end of the aisle. Beyond it is a dim room with six bunks shelved up the walls in groups of three and a microwave kitchenette between.

I want you with me when they go in, Arthur, Baxter says. If our UNSUB is as smart as hes been so far, he may catch on and barricade himself.

Wouldnt miss it, says Lenz.

When the door closes after Baxter, the psychiatrist takes a seat on one of the bottom bunks, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one, which must be breaking about a dozen rules in this high-tech government vehicle. No alarm goes off. He blows smoke away from us and says, You talked your way in. Lets finish up.

Doctor, nothing I could tell you has anything to do with the EROS murders.

Then the sooner you tell me, the sooner youll be in the clear.

My eyes remain on his face, but my mind is far away.

He takes another drag in silence, then gets up from the bed and squats before a small refrigerator. The opening door fills the room with sickly fluorescent light. Eureka, he says in a deadpan voice. It seems that Daniels boys share your taste for orally administered carcinogens.

Lenz holds a pink Tab can covered with icy condensation over his shoulder. I take it, pop the top, and suck down half its contents in four quick swallows. The peppery sting of caffeine-spiked carbonation burns my gums and throat and makes my eyes water. I feel twice as good
as I did ten seconds ago. I want to tell Lenz that there is no secret, that Ive never done anything to really be ashamed of, but of course that would be absurd. He knows theres something there. He knows theres always something.

You still dont understand whats happening, do you? he says, sitting back on the bed with a bottle of Evian.

I know a womans life is at stake.

His face is a gray outline behind gray smoke. Thats not what I mean. Somethings eating you up inside, Cole. Id say its been eating at you for a long time. You
need
to tell me this thing. Dont you feel that?

The maddening thing is that Lenz is right. I dont especially want to tell
him,
but lately some part of me has been bursting to rid itself of this psychic weight.

Relax, he says. I carry more secrets around in my head than any ten priests. Theres hardly room in there for sins like yours, between the rapes and the child abuse and the murders.

None of those give you leverage over me, I point out, my voice brittle.

He smiles a little at that. You think I dont have leverage now?

I shrug.

In that moment Lenzs eyes look older than any Ive ever seen. Older than the eyes of crooked black women in the Delta, older than the eyes of men whove survived combat. Its your wifes sister, he says softly. Isnt it.

No feigned reaction will deceive those eyes. Fury at Miles boils like acid up into my chest.

Dont blame Turner, Lenz says gently. He doesnt even know he knows. I think hes half in love with the girl himself.

I say nothing.

Lenz takes a drag from his cigarette. I know youre no murderer. He laughs. Your sense of guilt is far too well developed for that. What do you think? Im fishing for information to ruin your marriage? To force you to work for me? Like the threat of arrest or ten years of tax audits wouldnt be enough?

He stands suddenly and pats me on the shoulder. Take it easy, Cole. Lets go watch some TV. One way or another, everythings going to look a lot different in a few minutes.

With that he opens the door and leads me back into the main room. A small crowd has gathered around the video bank, but it parts like the Red Sea for Lenz. I slipstream behind him.

One of the nerds has taken up station in a chair before the monitor bank, a headset over his ears, both hands on control knobs. I hear a burst of static, then a Southern-accented voice saying, This is Deke Smith, Dallas SWAT, advising Hostage Rescue has arrived.

The acknowledgment is lost beneath Daniel Baxters Okay, lets do it. He nods anxiously at the screens. Did they lock and load in the van?

The nerd in the chair repeats the question like a submarine officer relaying the orders of his captain. He listens to his headset, then replies, Locked and loaded. Approaching the local command post.

Damn it, I want to hear everything, snaps Baxter. Put it all on the squawk box.

The nerd flips a couple of switches, and suddenly the trailer is alive with the voices of the Dallas FBI SWAT team, the Dallas police, an FBI command post, and the wireless communications of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team.

Bravo Leader, checking in. Testes, testes, one, two.

Someone behind me emits a truncated laugh.

Thats Joe Payne, Hostage Rescue commander, Baxter says, either for my benefit or Lenzs. Theyre Bravo Team.

The remainder of Paynes unit checks in, which sounds like between eight and twelve men. Its hard to tell because they all talk at once.

We live to Alpha? someone asks over the radio. Payne, I think.

Baxter hits the nerd on the shoulder. The nerd mutters into his headset mike. Someone on-site tells Payne he is live to Alpha.

Are we Alpha? I ask.

A tech opposite me rolls his eyes.

Is the target still on the phone? asks Payne.

Someone farther along the trailer yells, Affirmative. An EROS tech in New York confirms UNSUB interacting with a female subscriber.

Prospective victim number eight, says Baxter.

No point in waiting, crackles Paynes voice. Cant see anything through the windows. Lets mount up.

What about video? asks Baxter. You got a camera going in?

The nerd relays the question, and Payne says, Camera goes in right after the guns.

Unable to bear the delay, Baxter yanks the headset off the nerds head and puts it on. Joe, this is Dan Baxter. You dont want to slip a pinhole camera under the door and check the layout?

Not this time. Dallas P.D. did a good job staying out of sight. I dont think this guy knows the cavalrys here. I dont want anyone approaching that door until we go up with the sledgehammers.

The manager wouldnt give up a key?

Sledgehammers are faster, says Payne. Were busting off the hinges in case he has hardened dead bolts. Im holding a floor plan now. Last-minute advice?

Baxter turns to Lenz. Arthur?

Whoevers in there, says Lenz, Id like to see them get out alive. We could learn a lot.

I heard that, says Payne. You tell your shrink no guarantees. This guy throws down on us, we take him out.

Can they go for a disabling wound? asks Lenz.

Baxter starts to explain something about body armor, but Paynes reply drowns him out. If my men shoot, they shoot for the head.

Good luck, Joe, says Baxter.

Ill watch the reruns with you tonight, says Payne. You bring the beer.

Youre on.

Suddenly the camaraderie is gone. Now the radio exchanges sound like snippets from a World War II combat movie. Curt questions, clipped replies. I hear several sighs of satisfaction around me as a third video
screen lights up. On it is a black-and-white image that looks like its being shot by a five-year-old. Nothing but black boots. Then the frame rises and focuses on the back of a black UPS-style truck. On the spare wheel housing, stenciled in gold, are six words that make it clear that this truck does not belong to a shipping company:

Jesus, mutters Baxter, but when he turns to Lenz he is smiling. The Dallas FBI SWAT motto.

The short ugly snout of a submachine gun passes into the frame, wiggles, and disappears.

Cameramans carrying, says a tech.

Good for him, says Baxter. Hes probably seen those Civil War movies where the flag bearer charges with nothing but a flag. At least he learned something.

The new video image suddenly begins to jerk. A flash of sidewalk, then Im moving along it the way you do when youre watching a horror film. The camera rises, showing us the back and shoulders of a man walking ahead of it. Then others in file ahead of him. Moving quickly now. Theyre clad from boots to balaclava helmets in bulky black jumpsuits with ripstop nylon and Kevlar and guns strapped all over them. They look like paratroopers.

Go, ninjas, whispers someone near the video monitors.

The entire team suddenly appears on one of the static screens. Theyre standing behind the wall of the apartment building nearest Strobekkers, their backs to the camera. Over their shoulders, Strobekkers front door is clearly visible. It looks no more than twenty feet away, but then I remember how camera angles can distort distance. Its like watching a baseball pitcher from a camera placed behind the catcher; you think you could reach out and touch him, but hes over sixty feet away.

This is Bravo Leader, says Payne. Ten seconds.

On the static view the Hostage Rescue Team lines up in a formation not unlike a football team. In front stand two men with black-painted sledgehammers in their hands.

Five seconds, says Payne.

Rock and roll, murmurs Baxter.

GO!

Paynes barked command seems to propel the two point men across the open ground by volume alone. They move quickly, but anyone who has ever lifted a sledgehammer knows that a full-speed sprint while carrying one is out of the question.

GO! GO! GO!
someone shouts.

When the lead agents reach Strobekkers door, the mobile video camera begins to move. Everyone in the trailer is racing across the open space with the second element of the assault team. On the static image I see the apartment door go down like a piece of styrofoam.

FEDERAL AGENTS! FEDERAL AGENTS!
scream wild voices, and by then at least five men have gone through the door.

DROP YOUR WEAPON! ON THE FLOOR RIGHT NOW!

Jesus! I grab Baxters coat. They got him?

Shut up, Cole!

Cameras in, a tech says softly.

Holy shit, someone hisses.

The mobile camera shows an apartment as bare as a spinsters cupboard. Men are still yelling Federal agents! but as the camera swings around the apartment I see no one but the commandos of the Hostage Rescue Team.

Locked door!
someone screams.

Strobekker just went off-line! shouts a voice from inside the trailer.

I hear a crash as the locked door goes down, but the camera does not follow.

Dont shoot him!
shouts Lenz.
For Gods sake, dont fire!

I am stunned beyond words when Baxter turns and shoves Arthur Lenz out of range of the mike. Brahmas fate is in the hands of soldiers now.

What the fuck?
says a shocked voice. Did he go out the window?

Negative! someone answers. This is Dallas SWAT leader, no rabbits.

Closets empty! screams a shaky young voice.

What the fuck?

Get the camera in there! yells Baxter. Whats going on, Joe?

Alpha, theres nothing in this apartment but a computer and a phone. Weve been had.